long ago, when in an aristocratic circle, I understood nearly one-half
of the conversation of two German countesses, each of whom could count
at least sixty-four years, and as many ancestors. Yes, in the _Café
Royal_ in Berlin, I once heard Monsieur Hans Michel Martens talking
French, and could understand every word he spoke, though there was no
understanding in anything he said. We must know the _spirit_ of a
language, and this is best learned by drumming. _Parbleu_! how much do I
not owe to the French drummer who was so long quartered in our house,
who looked like a devil, and yet had the good heart of an angel, and
withal drummed so divinely!

He was a little, nervous figure, with a terrible black mustache, beneath
which red lips sprang forth defiantly, while his wild eyes shot fiery
glances all round.

I, a young shaver, stuck to him like a burr, and helped him to clean his
military buttons till they shone like mirrors, and to pipe-clay his
vest--for Monsieur Le Grand liked to look well--and I followed him to
the guard house, to the roll-call, to the parade-ground--in those times
there was nothing but the gleam of weapons and merriment--_les jours de
fête sont passés_! Monsieur Le Grand knew but a little broken German,
only the three principal words, "Bread," "Kiss," "Honor"--but he could
make himself very intelligible with his drum. For instance, if I knew
not what the word _liberté_ meant, he drummed the _Marseillaise_--and I
understood him. If I did not understand the word _égalité_, he drummed
the march--

"Ça ira, ça ira, ça ira,
Les aristocrats à la lanterne!"